


The Things I Couldn't Say to You Then, I'll Say to You Now

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's diary reveals more to Sherlock than John ever intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://mywittyuzername.livejournal.com/profile)[**mywittyuzername**](http://mywittyuzername.livejournal.com/)'s prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post.

  
For [](http://mywittyuzername.livejournal.com/profile)[**mywittyuzername**](http://mywittyuzername.livejournal.com/) , who asked for song #327, which was, for this part at least, “Rose's Theme” from the _Doctor Who_ soundtrack by Murray Gold.

  


There had been guns, and maniacal laughter, and the wind whistling in his ears, the roar of falling water, the sound of a shot, and then it was over and he could go _home_ to his John.

But now, before he could go home, he was standing in Mycroft’s study, looking warily at his brother, who was holding out a stack of paper.

“I think you need to read these, Sherlock.”

Mycroft handed him the stack of paper. Sherlock took it and frowned.

“What is it?”

“Just read them. John kept a file on his computer with a diary of sorts. That’s what you have in front of you. I think…” Mycroft paused, pursed his lips, and continued, “I think you should know what he had to say before you go home.”

Sherlock sank down into Mycroft’s armchair and started to read.

  


*****

  
 _Day 17_

Finally allowed to write. First thing I asked for, after you, was my mobile. Couldn’t believe you’d died, you see, and so I wanted to call you. But my mobile was destroyed in the blast, and so was yours, Mycroft said.

So then I asked for my laptop.

It’s hard to type when you’ve lost almost all sensation in your left arm.

I’ll be released from hospital in another few days, I think. They want to make sure I can get around well enough with the burns and the nerve damage and all.

This is one limp you won’t be able to cure.

Wouldn’t be able to cure.

Fuck.

Why did you do it, Sherlock? Mycroft told me what you did at the pool. Why did you shield me instead of protecting yourself? Do you think I can live with the guilt of knowing I triggered your long lost sense of empathy and so you fucking died to protect me?

I’m not worth it, Sherlock.

 _Day 21_

Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since I last saw our flat, since I last saw you.

It feels like three decades.

Mycroft offered to buy me a flat, but I turned him down.

I couldn’t abandon our home.

  


 _Day 37_

It doesn’t smell like you anymore in here. Even your sheets, my sheets, have given up the ghost.

If I press my nose as hard as I can into the sofa, though, I imagine I can catch a whisper of your scent embedded in the sofa.

I don’t sit on it anymore. I want to preserve you as long as I can.

  


 _Day 62_

Lestrade came by today, for the first time in a few weeks. Went down the pub with him. It should have been easy to talk to him, but it’s been a long time since I’ve really talked to anyone, and our conversation was over practically before it began.

I doubt I’ll see much more of him. He only came round to check up on me.

I haven’t been working, you see. I don’t exactly look normal, what with the scars and the limp and the practically useless arm.

Sarah hasn’t been by since I left hospital. I think she pities me, and wants to give me hope that someday, I’ll come back to work.

I don’t think I ever will.

  


 _Day 107_

I went and put flowers on your grave today. Foxglove.

I looked for belladonna, since I knew it was your favourite, but didn’t find any.

  


 _Day 215_

I keep forgetting to write in my blog. Even Ella’s given up on me; or, at least she’s stopped ringing when I’ve missed another appointment.

It’s too hard to leave the flat.

I think Mycroft must have paid her off to quit bothering me.

I’m fine, anyway.

Even Mrs. Hudson says I look a bit better. She comes up once a day with the papers and a pot of tea. She never stays long, just for a few minutes.

She’ll putter around a bit, straightening things up, and then leave again as silently as she came in.

I think I’ve spoken ten words in the past month.

  


 _Day 300_

Mycroft came to see me today.

We didn’t speak, but I think he saw more than I wanted him to.

I know he saw the thick dust on the telly remote and the books.

His only response was a tightening of his fingers on his umbrella handle.

He left after ten minutes of silence.

  


 _Day 365_

I found the belladonna.

It looks nice next to your name.

I’m sorry I missed your funeral.

  


 _Day 413_

It’s so quiet here. Mrs. Hudson brought me a CD.

Bach. Your favourite.

I’ve played it nonstop since yesterday.

It’s nice, having the noise. It makes me feel like you’re still here, somehow.

  


 _Day 424_

Lestrade came by today. Had a funny murder, he said. We’re absolutely stumped. Care to take a look, see if you can spot anything?

So I went.

I kept expecting to hear you come up behind me and tell me what I missed. But I think I did okay. Gave him a few observations and left. It felt nice, like I was part of the old team again.

I think you would have been proud of me.

Were you proud of me?

I like to think you were.

I miss you. I can’t believe I haven’t said that before now, but I do. Miss you, that is.


	2. Chapter 2

_Day 447_

I’ve finally got a job. Different surgery, full time. I couldn’t bring myself to ring Sarah up and beg for my job back. Got a call a week ago to ask if I was interested in the position.

I suspect Mycroft had something to do with it, but I can’t ask him. I haven’t seen him since his last visit.

The few times I managed to make it out of the house before last week, I always made sure to look in the CCTV so he’d know I was still alive, at least.

Anyway. Today was my first day. Felt a bit weird to be at work all day and not have sixty texts waiting form me when I turned my mobile back on at lunch.

I kept it on after lunch and checked it after every patient, hoping that I’d just missed it buzzing.

I hadn’t.

Fuck.

When is this going to get easier? Everyone always says that it just takes time and that it will get better, hell, I’ve told my own patients the same thing, but it’s not getting any better.

  


Fuck.

  


  
 _Day 511_

Job’s going well. Bored stiff (haha, very funny, nearly my whole left side’s permanently stiff) but it pays the bills and that’s what matters.

No, it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that I still think I see you out of the corner of my eye. Every time I see a tall, stick thin bloke with black hair and a long coat, my heart stops and stutters. I wait for him to turn, or I get close enough to see his face, and it’s never you.

I should give up, but I don’t want to.

Mycroft’s avoided me for so long, and I can practically hear your voice whispering in my ear that he’s hiding something. But he won’t answer my calls, so I’m leaving it and him be.

I can’t get my hopes up.

I have to move on.

I won’t forget you, my body won’t let me forget the feel of your fingers on my skin, but I have to move on.

I can’t live like this forever.

  


  
 _Day 538_

I keep forgetting to talk about the cases I help Lestrade with.

There haven’t been nearly as many as when you were here, but I’ve been called in a dozen or so times, and I like to think I was able to help him out. I can’t do what you could do, obviously, but I picked a few things up.

After I get back from one of Lestrade’s cases, I tell the skull about the case, what I saw, what I deduced, told Lestrade. And if Lestrade follows up with the results of the case, I update the skull, too.

You were right.

It’s nice talking to something that doesn’t talk back and doesn’t expect anything of you.

And it makes me feel closer to you, like you’re listening, somehow.

You’d probably mock me, though, for all the things I missed.

I’d give anything to hear you do that.

  


  
 _Day 542_

I took myself in hand tonight. I imagined I could feel your lips on mine and your tongue invading my mouth. I could almost feel your hands roaming over my body, hear your voice whispering how much you loved me in my ear.

It was over far too fast and I cried after.

  


  
 _Day 607_

I finally agreed to go out with Mary to dinner tonight. She’s a doctor at the surgery; she’s nice enough. She’s been asking me to go to dinner or out for drinks for months now, and I’ve always turned her down. She never pushes, just says the invite’s always open, call anytime. She doesn’t expect anything of me, but I still could never say yes.

But I got home tonight and the flat was too quiet. Even playing the Bach CD didn’t help, and I found myself sending her a text before I realised what I was doing.

It wasn’t a disaster. She’s quite nice, very friendly. We didn’t talk about anything big or important, just things like unruly patients, office gossip, movies, that kind of thing.

When we were leaving, she kissed my cheek and said, “John, I wish you could understand that you can talk about it. To me, I mean. I know there’s something big that happened, and if you ever want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

I walked home and thought about it.

What would it mean if I told someone else about you? Someone who didn’t know you, who had never seen how brilliant you were.

I think more people should know how much I loved you.

I never told you that enough. Can you ever say it enough?

I wish I could have carved those three words into your bones so you could take them with you wherever you went.

Maybe I will tell Mary about you. But not yet.

How do I put you into words other people could understand? How can I distill us into nouns, verbs, adjectives?

The truth is, there are no words adequate enough to say what you were to me, what we shared, what I think and hope I meant to you.

  


  
 _Day 641_

I’ve finally told Mary about you. I brought her here to the flat because I knew I’d have a wobbly and I didn’t want to embarrass myself in public.

I cried, she cried, and she held me for a long time.

I fell asleep in her arms, the two of us sitting on the sofa.

When we woke up, I instantly felt guilty, like I had betrayed you by letting her in. She just smiled at me, kissed my cheek, and said, “You’re a good friend, John. I wish I could find what you and your Sherlock had, and I will never stand between that. I don’t think anyone could.”

I agreed, relieved.

There will never be anyone else. There never could be.

You took my heart with you, Sherlock, and I don’t begrudge you it at all. It was always yours.

  


  
 _Day 730_

It’s been two fucking years.

I went to your grave and laid some belladonna there for you.

Then I went to see Lestrade.

He sat me down and finally, finally agreed to let me see the police report and tell me what happened That Night.

He said that after you pulled the trigger, the bomb went off. They think you pushed me into one of the changing stalls to protect us, but it didn’t work.

They found you, curled around and over me, protecting me from the worst of the rubble.

He said your hand was clasped in mine and that we were both covered in your blood and in mine.

He said you were already gone when they dug us out, and that when they pulled you off of me, I woke up and screamed at them not to take you away, that I could fix you and make you better. I tried to cling on to you with my ruined arm, he said. He was the one who pulled me away, who held me down until the paramedics could get me strapped to a gurney.

He said I was still screaming for you even after the ambulance doors closed.

I wish I could have fixed you the same way you fixed me.

I should have protected you better, made you safe. That was my job, not yours.

I should have died in your place. I’m not the one the world needs.

I miss you, you mad bastard.

I love you. I hope you knew how much I did.

I think you did. Why else would you have done that?


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, clutching the sheaf of paper in one hand as he used the other to scrub away the tears that had fallen without his permission or his awareness.

He looked up quickly as Mycroft cleared his throat. “There’s more,” he said gently, holding out another sheaf of paper. Sherlock reached out to take it, but Mycroft held onto it, their fingers almost touching. “And Sherlock, I am sorry.”

“For what?”

Mycroft sighed. “I did not handle your ‘death’ well, and I may have said and done some rash things that in hindsight, I deeply regret doing. Seeing you on my doorstep this afternoon was…unexpected, to say the least.”

Sherlock tugged on the slim stack of paper clutched in his brother’s hand. Mycroft gave it up reluctantly. “Have you read this?” Sherlock asked as he resettled in the chair.

“Not all of it. Not the most recent parts.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked across the top page. Mycroft cleared his throat. His brother’s eyes glanced up and locked eyes with him. Mycroft shifted his weight uneasily as his own gaze skimmed the back of the pages in Sherlock’s hands before he looked back up and met Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock raised a brow in a silent query.

“I am sorry, Sherlock, for the things I said to Doctor Watson. I do not expect either of you will forgive me, but please, believe me when I tell you my remorse is genuine.”

Mycroft turned away and let Sherlock read the account he was sure Doctor Watson had given about their…conversation. After that day, he had not seen, spoken to, or read anything of Doctor Watson. He hoped that one day, Sherlock would understand why this had been necessary. Everything Mycroft had ever done was to protect his little brother. All that remained was to learn if Sherlock would realise it.

  


*****

  
 _Day 764_

I thought I saw you today. Just out of the corner of my eye, here in the flat. I had made tea and had just sat down to watch a bit of telly and I thought I saw you flop down in your chair.

Of course, you weren’t really there.

I kept watch, but I didn’t see you again.

  
 _Day 777_

Now I think I’m going mad.

I just saw you, not even ten minutes ago, leaning over your dusty microscope in the kitchen. Or at least I thought I did, but the dust hadn’t been disturbed, so.

It’s bad enough I see you in my dreams, but to tease me like this is just cruel, Sherlock.

  
 _Day 789_

Went out with Mary again tonight. It’s still odd to have friends, to be able to go out and have an evening that’s not interrupted.

I kept checking my phone, waiting for a text from you to tell me there was some horrible murder and you needed me right away, or that you wanted a cuppa and were too lazy to get it yourself.

I checked my old texts, the ones I saved from you, once I saw Mary home.

The last one I have from you says

 _When are you coming home? I need you here, John.  
SH_

I’ll be damned if I can remember what you needed me for, but that is one text I will never delete.

  
 _Day 824_

Mycroft came by today.

Christ.

I don’t even know how to begin.

I’ve sat here in the dark for hours since he left, trying to process it all.

You were alive.

You were alive this whole time, for over two fucking years, and you never said anything to me you fucking bastard! And now I’m left sitting here wondering why you didn’t want me with you.

You promised me, and I promised you. Whatever happened, we’d always go together. No more running off alone. But that’s exactly what you did. And I don’t know why. Apparently, no one except Mycroft knew you were alive. I don’t understand, Sherlock. Why didn’t you bring me with you?

And now I can’t even ask you what the fuck you were thinking running off alone after Moriarty because you’re dead for real this time. Mycroft said something about a waterfall in Switzerland, and something about you and Moriarty fighting until you both fell.

We sat in silence until I’d had some time to take at least a bit of this in.

Then your bastard of a brother leaned in and told me this. I can remember every word he said, and I’ve got it here verbatim:

“This is your fault, Doctor Watson. You were his weakness, the one thing he had that mattered. He cared about you, and he wanted you kept safe because he knew you could be used against him. So I agreed to say nothing because he and I knew you would go after him. I bitterly regret that decision because you could have saved him. But because you took my brother’s heart in your hands, he wanted you kept safe, and that cost him his life. I will never forgive this, Doctor. I will honor the last agreement I made with Sherlock and keep you safe as I can, but that is all. And I do this only because it is one of the few things he ever asked of me.”

He left directly after that.

Christ.

I want to hate you for what you did. I want to scream at you for breaking a promise you made to me.

I want to cling tight to your memory so you won’t slip away from me.

When we would lie in bed together, I used to imagine how your mind must look, what you saw when you looked at me, at the world. I thought you would see numbers and figures and diagrams all flashing around in there, flickering in your eyes like the telly screen. Fast, too, far faster than could be seen, all those connections firing at maximum capacity. You told me once that I helped quiet your mind. I wish I could have seen how I did that.

My mind is as blank now as yours was brilliant.

Why? Why now?

  
 _Day 850_

It’s getting harder now to get myself out of the flat, to force myself to go to work. I thought I was almost done feeling quite so despondent, and then you died again and I can’t.

I keep seeing little flashes of you out of the corner of my eye. It’s getting more frequent now. It’s almost like you’re watching over me, like you’re trying to tell me something that I can’t quite understand.

  
 _Day 903_

Lestrade rang today, asked me to come look at a body they found in a hedge. No marks, no blood, nothing. It wasn’t natural causes. I looked it over, gave a few thoughts, and then looked Lestrade in the eye.

Well, I tried to, anyway. He noticed and asked what was wrong, all full of concern.

I couldn’t look at him, though. I couldn’t look at him and tell him that I was the responsible for killing you. I couldn’t take his pity.

I don’t deserve pity.

I excused myself and walked the two miles home.

I could barely hobble up the stairs when I finally made it.

People kept avoiding me as I walked down the streets. I know the scars are pretty terrible, but there must have been something in my face.

Perhaps they think despair is catching.

Lestrade’s rung six times now. I won’t answer the phone.

He’ll give up eventually.

People who can’t protect the ones they love don’t get to have pity.

  
 _Day 947_

The nightmares are getting worse.

I keep seeing you and Moriarty falling over and over and over and over again and each time I just stand there screaming your name, unable to move as you fall, my name ripped from your throat as you tip over the side.

I used to dream of blood and deserts and good men dying under my hands.

Now I dream of the waterfall, or of you and I lying tangled naked in our bed. I roll over and you’re dead, head smashed in, body broken, blood pouring from every orifice. Just like your body would have looked when they pulled you from the river.

Sometimes, your head is turned toward me and I can see the accusation in your eyes. You’re silently asking me why I didn’t save you, and the answer is I couldn’t because I didn’t know you needed me.

I would’ve been there if you’d let me.

Do you know how much it’s eating me up inside to know that you didn’t trust me enough to let me come with you? You had my heart, too, Sherlock. I died when you did, and now I’m just existing.

And just existing is getting harder by the day.

  
 _Day 993_

I quit at the surgery today.

Lestrade stopped ringing me. I suspect Mycroft may have told him what happened to you.

Mycroft has not been in contact with me.

Mrs. Hudson barely comes up anymore. I can barely look her in the eye. I can’t even begin to tell her that it was my fault you died. That if I had been there, you would still be here. She loved you like a son. I can’t do that to her.

  
 _Day 1012_

I spend most of my days in bed. It’s hard to muster the ability to care anymore.

It’s funny how long it took me to diagnose my depression.

The world just keeps fading away, bit by bit.

It’s easier to lie in bed and let myself remember you lying next to me. It’s the only time I feel at peace, anymore.

  
 _Day 1026_

I took out my gun for the first time in years today. Oiled it, cleaned it, loaded it.

Sat there with it in my hand for a long time, finger on the trigger.

I heard Mrs. Hudson on the stairs and put it away.

Didn’t want to make a mess for her.

 

I saw you sitting on the sofa, watching me, later. I wish I could have understood what your eyes were trying to tell me.

  
 _Day 1041_

I started my blog with the words “Nothing happens to me.”

I never thought what happened to me would happen.

Living through Afghanistan and the PTSD was horrible.

Living without you is hell.

  
 _Day 1094_

It’s been almost three years to the day. I went out and put the belladonna on your grave again, even though I know you’re not buried there. Mycroft never told me where he put you.

 

I saw a rerun of _Doctor Who_ last night. She said, “This is the story of how I died.” I looked it up because I wanted to make sure I had the exact words. They sum up exactly how I feel.

My name is John Watson, and this is the story of how I died.

At the lowest point in my life at that time, I met a man named Sherlock Holmes. He was mad. And brilliant. I was better with him. A better person, I mean. I like to think I made him better, too.

I loved him, and I never told him how much.

He loved me, and I knew how much he did.

He loved me enough to keep me safe, even though he swore he’d never run off on his own. We worked better together. Two halves of the same whole.

And then he died, and I barely lived through it. He had my heart, you see, and I had his.

Then I found out he had been alive all this time, and had kept it from me to keep me safe.   
But he died, and I’m not sure how long I can stand to live in a world where half of me is gone.

It won’t be much longer.

I can’t hold on forever.

How long can you live without your heart?

I think I’ve found out.

  
 _Day 1095_

i can’t

  


*****

  
Sherlock’s eyes widened as he read the last entry. He dropped all but the last sheet of paper as he stood up and yelled for Mycroft.

“When was this last one written? How long ago?”

Mycroft tapped a quick text and waited a few seconds. When his mobile chimed, he said,   
“According to the timestamp on the file, about ten minutes ago. Anthea just had it printed off when I gave you that last stack.”

“I need a car, now.”

Sherlock didn’t wait for a response. He ran out the door, the last piece of paper clutched in his hand. If it had been ten minutes, he may be too late by the time he got to Baker Street. John could already be dead.

  
Sherlock burst through the door to 221B, racing past a shocked Mrs. Hudson as he took the stairs two at a time and threw himself into their sitting room.

John was gone.

Sherlock’s heart dropped through his stomach as he searched the flat for the one thing he hoped he would find: John’s gun.

He didn’t find it.

“No!” Sherlock spun in place, pulling at his hair. “Nononononono! Think! Where would he have gone? Somewhere where he wouldn’t leave a mess, he’s too conscientious of that.”

Understanding bloomed. “The river. He would have gone to the river.”

Sherlock ran for the closest bridge over the Thames.

  
John was there, gun in his hand, looking down over the railing. He hoisted himself up and sat on the rail, balancing precariously.

“John!” Sherlock shouted. He was too far away, his feet pounding as he ran faster than he ever had in his life. “John! Don’t!”

John turned his head and his eyes widened.

“You’re not real,” he breathed. “I’ve been seeing you for so long. That’s all you are. A hallucination. You’re dead, and I’m hallucinating.” John smiled sadly. “No matter. I’ll see you soon enough.”

“John!”

John raised the gun. Took a deep breath. Pulled the trigger.

Sherlock made it to the railing in time to see his body hit the water.

His throat was raw from screaming. He turned away from the railing, from the sight of John’s body floating on the river, and vomited, coughing as the bile burned his throat.

He managed to dial Lestrade. He had no idea what he said to him, but ten minutes later, he had an orange shock blanket ( _oh, John_ ) around his shoulders and Lestrade was saying something to him. ( _John is gone, oh godohgodohgod he’s gone what am I going to do I never told him I felt the same things he did I loved him and he’s gone and I can’t be alone anymore it’s been too long without him and I can’t_ )

“Sherlock?”

He blinked and peered at Lestrade.

“I’m taking you home. Come on. Up with you. There we go.”

Lestrade herded him to his car.

“I want to stay. I need to make sure they take care of him.”

Lestrade’s look nearly undid him. “They will take care of him, Sherlock. You can see him tomorrow; let them get him ready.”

( _the bullet would have blown off most of the back of his head; they’ll have to clean him up but I want to see him now this can’t be real I’ll wake up soon and John will be John will be John will be alive and laughing at me and making tea and toast and oh god help me help him he was a good man better than me and take care of him please until I can see him again. Just let me see him again when I follow_ )

Sooner than he expected, he was installed on his sofa in their ( _just yours, now_ ) flat and staring at the ceiling.

He clutched John’s jumper in his hands, breathing in great greedy lungfuls of John’s scent before he lost it forever.

When the jumper was soaked through, he sent a text.

Thirty minutes later, two quietly deadly pills were delivered to the flat. He hid them away until it was time to take them. He had to see John off properly. Then, he could come back here and slip away.

  
John was put in the ground three days later.

At his funeral, Sherlock stood and said, “There were things John told me while I was gone that I never would have believed another person would ever have wanted to say to me. I never got the chance to tell John that I felt the same about him as he did me. I loved him, and he knew it, but I never knew the depth and breadth of that love until I read his words that he wrote when he thought I was gone. I wish I could have told him everything.”

He sat down, knees and eyes watery. Lestrade gripped his shoulder and tugged him into a one-armed embrace.

  
Sherlock went back the next day to see John one last time. He sat in silence on the freshly smoothed dirt, fingers tracing restless patterns in the soil.

The headstone Sherlock had ordered had places for two names. In a few days, they both would be here. John wouldn’t be alone any longer.

He stood up and started to walk back along the winding path. Mycroft was approaching John’s grave, his face somber. Of course Mycroft had been watching over the cameras⎯he would have seen the larger headstone and had come to talk sense into his brother. There was nothing Sherlock had to say, but he did stop when Mycroft was in front of him. He looked his brother in the eye, and then nodded curtly at him. Mycroft started to say his name, reaching out to grab at him, but Sherlock neatly evaded him and kept walking.

  
He made it back to the flat without further interruption. He climbed the stairs, went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and took the pills from their hiding place in the skull.

He hesitated for a moment before he walked into their room. It still smelled like John, and he smiled a bit as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He rolled the pills in between his fingers before swallowing them down, chasing them with a swig of water.

Sherlock laid down and pressed his nose into John’s pillow, inhaling his scent. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

John had waited long enough. It was time.

⎯Fin⎯


End file.
